In Solitude
by TheVoiceInMyHead
Summary: Because to Jasper, his scars weren't trophies, they weren't history, nor were they anything to be proud of. To him, his scars were simply disfigurement. They were blemishes against the humanity he worked tirelessly to pursue.


Scars are like tattoos, only they have better stories.

A scar is a souvenir; it's memorabilia. A part of your past, your history. It proves something. It's like a picture to going along with a story. It's who you are, where you've been, what you've done. It's simply something to admire.

Scars are something to be proud of.

At least, that's what Jasper desperately tries to convince himself.

Everyday, Jasper finds a moment of solitude away from the rest of his family. He prefers the lighting at ten past four in the afternoon and so that moment is one he's delegated as his own. Wordlessly, he'll remove himself from the others, avoiding their unforgiving constant, questioning stares, and accompanies himself to his and Alice's bedroom. This is his ritual, an everyday occurence since his time in the Cullen house. No one has ever followed Jasper up the stairs at ten past four, curious as they may be, and those who know what engagement lies for Jasper at the top of the stairs say nothing. When Edward sees Jasper rise from his chair and begin to ascend the staircase, he will forcefully direct his energy towards Emmett's thoughts, something he doesn't particularly enjoy. He endures it only because he knows that if it were him, Jasper would not intrude. It is some twisted form of etiquette, and Edward respects privacy, knowing how essential it is to his own being.

Alice knows all and says nothing. Infuriatingly nosy and petulant though she is, Alice knows when she must not interfere. She'll watch Jasper leave with a heavy heart, waiting for the day he'll extend his hand and ask her to join him. Sometimes it seems like she's waiting in vain. It makes her more forlorn than angry, but she assures herself with patience. She has forever to wait, after all.

Jasper can immediately feel the rise of confusion in the emotions surrounding him. Each feeling is like a taste to Jasper, and when he begins to climb the stairs, the bitter taste of confusion overcomes his every sense. It takes all his willpower not to manipulate the bitter confusion into a sweeter alternative, calmness for example, but he figures that letting them speculate is the kindest thing he can do. Confusion leads to assuming, and Jasper doesn't mind the assumptions that certainly permeate their thoughts. In fact, they're all better off not knowing the truth behind his actions. The one feeling he despises is worry; it seems to leave a bad aftertaste in his mouth. If they knew the actuality of these trips up the stairs, worry is something that would absolutely consume his family's thoughts, and successively, his own.

He closes the door behind him and appreciates the soft click of the lock as it meets the doorframe. Crossing the room with purpose yet no visible hurry, he tugs the curtains away from the window, letting the light pour in through the glass, illuminating every crevice in the room. Jasper turns away from the window in a kind of practiced fashion, and fluidly pulls away the covering cloth draped on the only mirror in the room.

It's an old-fashioned type of mirror, with carved edges of mahogany and smelling faintly of dust. It is taller than Jasper himself, resting leisurely on it's support as it informs Jasper of his reflection and the surrounding setting. For a moment, he simply stands there and gazes into the depths of the mirror, hoping as he always does, that it will finally show him something different. He searches in vain for any change in his appearance, something to differentiate himself from yesterday's Jasper or last year's Jasper. As always, there is nothing. This, Jasper reminds himself, is the occupational hazard of living in a body that never grows. Nothing will ever change. This makes Jasper a little melancholy, but at the same time, he feels something close to assurance. He realizes he wouldn't know how to react to change. Consistency, he continues, is something he can depend on.

At that second, a ray of sunlight glints off the glass of the mirror and Jasper remembers why he is here, why he is always here. His fast fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, slowly revealing the sight he so repulses yet marvels. Once his shirt is twisted in a heap beside him, Jasper allows himself to really look. This is the part he fears the most, even in knowing what he will always see.

His eyes begin to examine the angry scars draping his body.

There was one occurence, many years ago, when he and Alice were alone in the confines of their room. She had been laying on Jasper's arm, the blanket woven messily around her body, listening silently to his quiet monologue. Jasper, lying as shirtless as he was now, was telling Alice some inane tale, and he knew that both she and him had lost interest quite a long time ago. He had simply kept talking to allow her the moment to gaze at his scars, something she avoided letting Jasper know of or realize. He could feel her eyes on each scar, thinking, judging. He allowed her a few moments more to look before the urge to ask was too overpowering.

"What are you thinking so hard of whenever you look at them?"

Alice's eyes suddenly flitted up and gazed into her partner's, abashed. It was an odd sight to see Alice surprised. Jasper held her gaze and she knew she would have to answer, it was only fair.

"I think," She mused quietly, "that you _are_ your scars."

Alice had paused, and then explained that to her, Jasper was rugged and tough, yet still beautiful and sensitive; qualities she associated with his scars. He was his scars, she said, because he was like them.

Jasper, on the other hand, interprets it all quite differently. Especially now, as he gazes at each one in the reflection of the mirror. Jasper was his scars. He was his scars because they were the most dominant thing about him. They were the first thing vampires saw, the first notion to base an opinion on. They were the only thing remarkable about him, if one even chose to think of them that way. Jasper was his scars because they wore him, not the other way around. If there was one thing to remember about Jasper, it was his scars. Jasper Hale was his scars, the scars were Jasper Hale.

The light from the burning sun dances on his skin but the diamonds flicker feebly against the presence of the scars. He watches them for a long time, willing himself to morph them into something else, something beautiful. Because to Jasper, his scars weren't trophies, they weren't history, nor were they anything to be proud of. To him, his scars were simply disfigurement. They were blemishes against the humanity he worked tirelessly to pursue.

He closes his eyes and the imprint of the bright picture of his reflection burns into his eyelids. He could see the faceless vampires again, their shining teeth glinting in the moonlight before sinking themselves into his flesh. But he could not thrash or fight to protect himself. He merely watches, in his mind's eye, as each of his ever-present scars take their shape against the skin forevermore and as each piece of skin slowly becomes unrecognizable. There was no pain, but he felt the urge to scream. It was building up inside him, bursting to pierce the air, but he could not release it. There would never be that satisfaction.

Jasper opens his eyes and glares once more at the mirror in front of him. His reflection glares back with equal venom.

He repulsed these scars, and the sight of them made his vision blur with rage. In a burst of speed, he lunges at the mirror, ripping it apart with his fingers, the glass crumbling at his slightest touch. The woods breaks in his palms and he throws each piece behind him, willing to erase it all from his memory if it means a single moment of peace. The glass soon becomes dust and the wood is now sand, but Jasper is still there, unchanging and scarred. He breathes deeply, fallen to the ground, the broken mirror surrounding him in piles, mocking him.

He is someone that loathes weakness, and for once he is glad he cannot cry, because crying would prove that he was weak. He gingerly touches a long scar on his shoulderblade, wincing as though it was fresh. If only there could be pain, he pleads, if only there could be something besides the constant numbness. Jasper feels everyone and everything around him all the time with startling clarity, but in that moment he realizes that he has never felt anything firsthand; he is forever numb. The thought is not something he considers comforting. He takes a hand full of dust, remnants of the broken mirror, and watches it slip through his fingers until there was nothing left to hold onto.

Downstairs, everyone is subdued and awkward, trying to silence the echo of Jasper's anguish and the violence with which he destroyed. There is a mutual feeling of intrusion on something meant to be private. The sounds of his cries and demolition are daily occurences, yet they haunt each Cullen with renewed affliction each day. Edward glances up at Carlisle, and both exchange a worried glance. For a moment, all is silent, and then the television is flicked on as Jasper's steps are heard on the stairs. The general taste of bitter confusion hits him once more, and he descends slowly, then takes his seat beside Alice, wrapping his fingers around hers.

To each Cullen, Jasper remains to be a mystery, and though none can overcome their pride to admit that they are scared, each secretly fears the force that could destroy Jasper Hale so thoroughly. To Alice, today's occurence is merely routine, and she knows, once she goes upstairs, that her and Jasper's bedroom will be in need of a new mirror.


End file.
